


restless (waiting for you to look my way)

by trustingno1



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Established Relationship, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-04-30
Updated: 2018-04-30
Packaged: 2019-04-30 07:43:05
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,093
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/14492139
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/trustingno1/pseuds/trustingno1
Summary: "No," John says, delighted, trying not to laugh, and Sherlock's expression shutters, feet stilling. "Seriously?""Don't make fun of me, John.""I'm not," John says, quick and earnest (and, oh, still so carefully navigating these waters). "I," he adds, closing his laptop, putting it aside, "am just a very lucky man."





	restless (waiting for you to look my way)

**Author's Note:**

> I was trying to get back into writing, and this happened, instead. Just John and Sherlock, loving each other and laughing a lot. And kissing. So. Much. Kissing.

Sherlock pauses behind him, bending low to read the screen over John's shoulder. 

"The maid's boyfriend?" he scoffs, "He had nothing to do with it!"

John hums in agreement, pecking at his keyboard. "Red herring," he murmurs, turning slightly to look at Sherlock, who gapes at him, before turning back to the screen.

"Kissing cousins?" he groans, and John can feel his breath on his cheek, "Why _bother_ with a title if you're going to give it away-" he breaks off, stomping over to the couch and collapsing, dramatically, in a huff.

John bites the inside of his cheek and _refuses_ to smile.

He can feel Sherlock looking at him, though.

"What?" John asks, glancing up from his laptop, and Sherlock's gaze darts away.

"Nothing," he says, quickly.

John taps at his keyboard a bit more - _and Sherlock got all of that from the footprints in the garden!_ \- but notices, in his peripheral vision, Sherlock looking at him again.

"No, seriously, what?" John asks.

"No-thing," Sherlock draws out, more breath than voice, as he kicks his feet, heels bouncing on the couch.

John looks between the laptop and Sherlock, runs through a quick check of the obvious (only finished a case in the early hours of this morning, eaten and slept since, Mycroft hasn't been by recently, no more than the usual level of irritation at John's slow typing) - 

Sherlock shifts again, restless; he runs the arch of his right foot over the top of his left and Christ, is this what Sherlock feels like when it all falls into place? - 

" _No_ ," John says, delighted, trying not to laugh, and Sherlock's expression shutters, feet stilling. "Seriously?"

"Don't make fun of me, John."

"I'm not," John says, quick and earnest (and, oh, still so carefully navigating these waters). "I," he adds, closing his laptop, putting it aside, "am just a very lucky man."

Sherlock flushes, and - maybe not sure that John's not taking the piss - waits for John to get to his feet and extend a hand. He grabs John's hand and scrambles up off the couch, and John tugs him closer, lifting his chin to place a delicate kiss at the corner of Sherlock's mouth.

"Yeah?" he murmurs, and Sherlock snorts, quietly, at his eloquence, even as his eyes close for a long moment. He turns his head slightly and kisses John on the mouth, eyes still closed.

John kisses him back, lightly at first, quietly smacking kisses, and when he sucks on Sherlock's top lip, Sherlock presses against him.

He uses their joined hands to tap lightly high on the side of Sherlock's thigh. "Bedroom," he urges, lips against Sherlock's.

Sherlock makes a frustrated noise in the back of his throat. "Hurry up," he frowns, and John laughs against his mouth, pausing to kiss him again, mouths open and soft, and Sherlock reaches his free hand up to cradle John's cheek.

John gives him a bit of a nudge, in the direction of the bedroom.

"This," Sherlock says, between kisses, "is a highly inefficient method of-"

"Shut up," John grins, affectionately, pausing for a moment to take Sherlock's lower lip between his teeth and delicately tug, a gentle rebuke that Sherlock pulls out of when he smiles.

He urges Sherlock backwards again, and Sherlock inhales sharply through his nose when John presses him against their bedroom wall. 

"What do you want?" he asks, dropping his hand to snake both hands under the hem of Sherlock's soft old t-shirt, thumbs tracing patterns on his bare sides, just above his hips.

"I," Sherlock says blankly, blinking, rapidly, "That is-" he swallows, and John loves him all the more for it, reaching up to kiss along his jaw -

\- can say it sometimes (the direct, teeth grazing John's earlobe, "I want to ride you"), (hands pinned to the mattress, John between his naked thighs, a challenge, "Fuck me through the headboard," - a pause, a crinkle appearing at the top of his nose, "Not literally, of course-" and John had ducked his head and pressed their mouths together to avoid killing what remained of the mood), (and the bloody romantic; once, the very first time, with a helpless twitch of his shoulders, "You. Just ... you, John.") -

John kisses him again, deliberately, once, twice, before pulling back to tug on Sherlock's shirt. "Off," he says, roughly, running his hands over Sherlock's waist, the small of his back.

Sherlock grabs the back of his shirt and tugs it up and over his head, dropping it beside them, and John grins at him again as he tugs him towards the bed. He pushes Sherlock down on the bed and gets a knee between Sherlock's, catches it on the edge of the bed and props himself up over Sherlock.

Sherlock's chest is rising and falling as he watches John. He crawls forward to kiss him again, murmurs, "C'mon. Get your kit off," and Sherlock barks out a laugh, even as he shoves his loose pyjama bottoms and pants down.

He kisses Sherlock's chest, a line down his sternum - makes a quick detour, and maybe Sherlock reads his intention in the tilt of his head, maybe he's just that predictable in the path that he takes, that Sherlock lifts his hand, catching him in a quick caress around the back of his neck, as John presses his lips to the fading gunshot wound.

He doesn't linger, and Sherlock's fingers slip through his hair as he ducks lower, kissing a path that loops whimsically around Sherlock's belly button, and Sherlock's stomach is shaking with laughter.

"John," he complains, and John stretches up to kiss him again.

"Sorry," he says, unapologetically, scooting back to kiss Sherlock's hip as he wraps a hand loosely around Sherlock's cock. 

Sherlock lets out a breath and John kisses the trail of hair beneath his belly button, mouthing at his lower abdomen, gently scraping his teeth against the soft skin.

" _John_ ," Sherlock says again, but differently (needy and longing and tightening up John's throat with one word).

He presses one last kiss to Sherlock's stomach, gives his dick a bit of a quick, friendly rub and sits up. "Coming," he says, with a grin, and Sherlock briefly closes his eyes, like he's searching for patience. John grabs the back of his own shirt as he checks, "Off?" and Sherlock just rolls his eyes (which, John knows, means, _Yes_ and _I rather like the feel of your bare skin against mine_ ).

He pulls it up and over his head, drops it beside the bed, kicks off his jeans for good measure, and grabs the lube from the bedside table. He slicks up his hand and tosses the lube onto the bed, stretches out and presses up against Sherlock on his side, left leg over Sherlock's left.

Sherlock turns his head into the kiss he knows is coming as John reaches down and strokes his cock again. He huffs out a tiny breath through his nose, and John kisses him again, before pulling back a little to watch his hand, to watch the way the head of Sherlock's cock is swallowed up in his grip, as he strokes him, root to tip. 

"Oh," Sherlock says, very softly, and John looks at him again, studies his face.

"Beautiful," he says, voice low, leaning in and brushing his mouth against Sherlock's, the pace of his hand unchanging, and Sherlock closes his eyes (and if Sherlock likes to hear it, _Christ_ , but John likes to say it-)

He presses his lips to Sherlock's temple. "You're bloody gorgeous like this," he murmurs. Sherlock's hips kick, and he pushes up into John's grip a little, and John picks up the pace a bit., "Could watch you all day." 

" _John_ ," Sherlock gasps, and John twists his wrist as he strokes him, loves the wet slap of his slick hand on Sherlock. He focuses on the head of Sherlock's cock, jacking him faster as Sherlock's back arches a little.

"You're close, aren't you," he doesn't really ask, as Sherlock begins to pant, "I know you, Sherlock." Sherlock's mouth goes slack with pleasure and John tucks his mouth in close to Sherlock's ear. "Oh, that's lovely," he murmurs, and Sherlock grabs his forearm - not stilling his hand - as he starts to come.

He pulls him through it, rubs him through the aftershocks with his own come, harder than he'd personally enjoy, but Sherlock shivers, his expression blissful.

"John," he says again, opening his eyes, and bugger it if there was more to that sentence, because John's leaning in to kiss him hard, hand finally slowing, as he pushes his hip against Sherlock's side.

"Can I-" he breathes, "inside-" and Sherlock cups his face and kisses him back, orgasm-soft and sweet, before reaching for the waistband of John's pants. He peels them carefully down, over John's rather insistent erection, and John kneels on the bed.

Sherlock rolls over onto his front, buries his face in his crossed arms (doesn't _understand_ , not really, why John craves this so much, but loves that he does).

He adds a bit more lube to the hand still slick with Sherlock's drying come and kneels above him, legs outside Sherlock's, and drags the head of his cock between the cheeks of Sherlock's arse, nudges against Sherlock's rim, where it catches, resists.

He leans over, bracing one hand on the bed beside Sherlock's side and drags his cock back up and down again, and Sherlock shuffles, spreading his legs, just a little. He pushes against Sherlock's entrance again before pulling away. 

He touches Sherlock's rim with his slick fingers, dipping just inside with one fingertip, before replacing them with his cock. He presses in again, and when the head pops in, John lets out a shaky breath.

Sherlock's never asked what it is about this, exactly, that does it for John (not directly, and not after the first time, studying John's face afterwards, venturing a guess about, in John's words, big cocks and tight virgins (in Sherlock's, though, "anatomically improbable penises" and "not that the number of sexual partners or experiences influences the sphincters' elasticity-" and John had said, quite firmly, "I love you. But you need to stop talking," and Sherlock had been caught between a scowl and a lovely, shy smile)).

It's the _control_ that does it for him; the knowledge that he could easily hurt Sherlock if he pressed too far, but never would; the knowledge that Sherlock trusts him so much he's not even watching.

And, well. The view doesn't exactly hurt.

He wanks himself slowly, enjoys the way his fist bounces off Sherlock's arse.

He sits back on his heels and shoves the right cheek of Sherlock's arse up with the palm of his hand, just to watch the way it jiggles when he lets go, and makes a noise like he's in pain.

Sherlock laughs a little (embarrassed, proud) into the fold of his arms, and John's breath is punching out of him through gritted teeth.

"Christ, Sherlock," he gasps as he withdraws and pulls frantically at his cock until he comes with a spasm over Sherlock's arse. He sucks his lower lip into his mouth, traces the crease at the top of Sherlock's thigh gently.

He collapses beside Sherlock, on his back, and Sherlock pulls one arm away from his face to rest his hand on John's chest, as he rubs his face against the pillow.

"Feeling better?" John asks.

Sherlock turns his head on the pillow to look at John, raises an eyebrow. "I just wanted a cup of tea," he says, and John stares at him for a beat before Sherlock cracks, laugh low and unselfconsciously _happy_ , and John shoves at his shoulder, rolling Sherlock onto his back and following him.

"Oh, you think you're clever, do you?" he asks, biting lightly at the point of Sherlock's chin, mouthing at the line his jaw, as Sherlock's hands stroke his sides.

"A bit," Sherlock pretends to demur, tilting his head to give John more room. 

"A _bit_ ," John repeats, under his breath, inching up to kiss Sherlock, easy and unhurried.

Sherlock opens his legs, and John settles atop him more fully, both tacky and drying, and Sherlock hooks one leg over John's, heel resting on his calf.

"So," Sherlock murmurs.

"So," John repeats, between kisses.

Sherlock's gaze is solemn. "Was that a 'no' on the tea-" and he doesn't get the whole sentence out before he cuts himself off with a bark of laughter, as John rolls them over and pulls him back in for another slow kiss.


End file.
